Читать книгу Royally Pregnant - Barbara McCauley - Страница 9

“Prince Dylan!” Her face bright red, Sally spun around and curtsied awkwardly. “I—I thought you were in a meeting with Admiral Monteque this morning.”

Dylan resisted the urge to tug at the charcoal silk tie around his neck, wished to God he didn’t have to wear these damn suits to informal meetings. “Not for another hour.”

Completely flustered that she’d been caught talking about a member of the royal family, an offense that she knew she could be fired for, the young maid began to babble. “I—I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. I didn’t mean to, that is, I wouldn’t have—”

“Never mind, Sally.” Frowning, Dylan waved a dismissive hand. “I’d like to speak to Emily, if you don’t mind.”

Sally folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, of course I don’t mind.”

Dylan lifted a brow. “Alone.”

“Oh, yes, of course, of course. I’m so sorry.” The maid pushed the food cart aside, then glanced at Emily. “I’ll be back in a little while to help you with a bath and wash your hair, but if you need anything at all, just dial two-four on the phone. Or I can wait outside, if you like, or I can—”

“Sally.”

The maid jumped at Dylan’s sharp reprimand, then backed toward the door, her eyes cast downward as she bowed out of the room.

Brow furrowed, Dylan stared at the closed door for a long moment. He’d never quite gotten used to the bows and curtsies he’d been subjected to his entire life. He’d accepted all the formality as part of his inherited duty, but still, that didn’t mean he had to like it.

There were times he was thankful that his brother would be named the next king. From the time they’d been young children, Owen had been more suited to rule Penwyck. He’d always had more patience, more interest in the politics of the country, while Dylan had found it difficult to stay in one place for any length of time or to follow the endless rules that the royal family was subject to. And his temper had gotten him in trouble on more than one occasion, a fact that his mother had lamented over his entire life.

And still, there were times that Dylan wondered if he could make a difference if he were to rule the country, if he could curb his temper and rule with his intellect instead of his emotions.

But what did it matter? Owen would be the next king of Penwyck, and Dylan bore his twin no ill will over that fact. Owen would make a fine king. He had a wife, Jordan, who would be a lovely queen, and their four-year-old daughter, Whitney, was already a beautiful princess. Owen would make their parents and family and all the people of Penwyck proud.

Dylan turned his attention to Emily. Pillows plumped behind her back, she sat upright in the large bed, a breakfast tray perched across her legs. She watched him with a cautious, uncertain expression in her eyes, eyes still glazed and heavy from sleep.

His blood stirred at the sight of her. With her thick, dark hair tumbling around her pale face and slender shoulders, and the soft rise of her bare breasts at the V of her green silk pajama top, she seemed more fantasy than reality.

Then his gaze dropped to the mark on her cheek and reality returned. A swear word hovered on the tip of his tongue, but he checked himself before it escaped. Though the swelling appeared less noticeable than the day before, the bruise itself had darkened to an angry, deep blue.

“Good morning, Your Royal Highness.” She lifted her gaze to his when he moved beside the bed. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy. You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.”

“From where I’m standing, Emily, you are hardly what I, or any other man, would consider disadvantaged.” Her blush spread across her cheeks and down the long, smooth column of her neck. Once again his gaze was drawn to her breasts, and he saw the outline of her nipples under the thin silk pajama top. The blood she’d stirred only a moment ago now began to heat quickly.

Forcing his mind off ravaging the woman, Dylan cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”

“As if my head were a forest,” she replied. “And a little man with a chain saw is busy cutting down the trees.”

He reached for the phone. “I’ll have your nurse paged right away.”

“It’s just a headache.” She touched his arm to stop him, then quickly pulled away. “I’m sorry, Your Royal Highness. That was presumptuous of me and I—”

“Stop that.” He frowned at her, then pulled the chair from beside the nightstand next to the bed and sat down. With a sigh, he took her hand in his. “Emily, I told you yesterday, when we’re alone, I’d rather you call me Dylan.”

“I—” She dropped her gaze. “If you like.”

“I like.”

He liked a lot of things when it came to Emily, Dylan realized. The lovely flush of pink on her cheeks, the soft lilt of her voice, her calm courage. Most of the women he’d known would have been in hysterics over all that had happened and would probably have the entire palace staff running in ten different directions.

But Emily had asked for nothing, had even seemed embarrassed over all the attention. Though that told him a lot about her character, he still knew nothing of who she actually was, or her background.

He closed his hand around hers. Her fingers were warm today, and he wondered if she was as smooth and soft all over. When he lightly brushed her wrist with his thumb, he felt her pulse jump under his touch. “Have you remembered anything?”

He saw the anguish in her eyes before she closed them and turned her head away. Dammit! Dylan cursed himself for pressing her. Dr. Waltham had warned him yesterday how stressful amnesia—even partial amnesia—was to a person. She was already in enough pain, and the last thing she needed right now was a lot of questions she couldn’t answer.

He’d know soon enough, anyway. He’d already asked Pierceson Prescott to look into the matter for him. Dylan was certain it wouldn’t be long before the respected member of King Morgan’s Royal Elite Team discovered this woman’s identity. It wasn’t as if she’d dropped out of the sky, after all.

Oddly, Dylan hoped that it wouldn’t be too soon. He knew that when she found out who she was, who her family was, she would be gone. It was hard to admit, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the lovely Emily just yet.

“Eat.” He released her hand and gestured to the food on the tray. “Chef Boudreau is one of the few luxuries I missed while I was away. The man is a genius.”

She picked up the cup and sipped at it. “Maybe just the tea.”

“Food.” Dylan reached for a fork and stabbed a bite of egg, then held it to her lips. “No argument, and that’s an order.”

“An order, is it?” She lifted a brow. “I thought you were just Dylan when we were alone.”

“That depends on how cooperative you are.” He felt his heart jump when her mouth closed over the fork. When he scooped up another bite of egg, the smile in her eyes faded.

“Dylan,” she said softly and took the fork from him. “I can feed myself, thank you. Maybe if you ate something, too, I wouldn’t feel so self-conscious.”

To make her more comfortable, he plucked a scone from her tray and sat back in his chair. The rain had eased up, and the steady drip drip drip off the eaves was the only sound in the room.

She ate delicately, tiny little bites, and each time she lifted the fork to her lips, Dylan felt a tightening in his groin. He knew he should look away. Lusting after a woman who lay injured and in pain was hardly a gentlemanly thing to do, especially when he’d been the one to inflict the injuries.

But then, he hadn’t always claimed to be a gentleman.

“Sally told me you’ve been away from the palace for two years,” Emily said after a few moments. “That’s a long time to be away from your family. You must have missed them very much.”

“Yes.” He hadn’t realized how much until he’d returned. “Though my sisters have been horrible nags about how long I’d been gone and the fact I’d been hard to reach.”

“So was it the jungle, the ocean or the Italian villa?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” Reaching for her napkin, she dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“Ah. The rumors.” He lifted his chin. “I’ve heard the jungle and ocean ones, but the Italian villa?”

She cast a sideways glance at him. “Where you’ve been hiding out while you were gone, with your lover, the contessa.”

Dylan couldn’t remember that he’d ever been with the same woman for two weeks, let alone two years. “Oh, that villa,” he said, taking another bite of scone. “I’d forgotten. There have been so many.”

Emily raised a brow. “Villas or women?”

“Rumors.”

Too many, Dylan thought in annoyance. From the time he was seventeen, the paparazzi and media had lurked in shadows and hidden around corners everywhere he’d gone. If he had so much as glanced at a woman, suddenly they were a couple, deeply in love, with eyes only for each other. According to the tabloids, Dylan Penwyck had been secretly engaged or actually married more times than he could count. His personal favorite was the eyewitness who’d sworn to have seen him in a Las Vegas chapel, slipping a ring on a famous model’s hand while an Elvis minister presided over the ceremony.

Still, he hadn’t much cared what the newspapers reported one way or the other, even when the headlines had been less than admirable. The only one that had ever bothered him in the slightest had been the accusation he’d fathered a baby and left his lover in poverty and rags while he dined in the finest restaurant with three buxom blondes then got into a drunken brawl with a waiter.

He still saw red every time he thought of that article and the accompanying photograph that barely resembled him. No Penwyck man would ever turn his back on his own child, let alone leave them in poverty.

It was the only time Dylan had personally stepped in and insisted on an apology, written and public, then made a “suggestion” to the newspaper that they make a rather large contribution to a local social services agency that assisted single pregnant women and mothers.

“I’m sorry,” Dylan heard Emily say quietly. “I’ve upset you.”

Dylan turned his attention back to the woman in the bed. She watched him with a worried look in her green eyes, and the sight of her lying there, so fragile and delicate, made him forget about the irritation he’d felt over that damn tabloid article.

Smiling, he shook his head. “Rumors go with the territory, I’m afraid. But it’s certainly taught me that you can’t believe everything you read, or even what you hear and see. Things,” he said evenly, “are not always what they seem.”

Her expression was blank as she held his gaze. “Prince Dylan is a cynic?”

“I question,” he said, then leaned close. “Especially when it comes to beautiful young women with amnesia.”

He caught the slight intake of her breath before she replied, “Are you complimenting me, Your Highness, or cross-examining?”

“Dylan,” he reminded her. “And if I have to tell you it’s a compliment, then I have been in the jungle for too long.”

“Ah.” She arched a brow. “So you were in the jungle, then?”

He shrugged. “Jungle, ocean, villa. Las Vegas wedding chapel.” He smiled at the curious lift of her brow. “What difference does it make? I’m home now, that’s all that matters. My family and serving my country are all that are important to me now.”

Emily glanced away, but not before he saw the tears suddenly form in her eyes. He tucked a finger under her chin, then turned her face back toward him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It must be hard for you, not knowing if your own family is out there somewhere, looking for you, wondering if you’re all right.”

“I—” She paused, swallowed hard. “I couldn’t bear it if I thought any harm had come to someone I loved.”

A tear dropped on his hand. He stared at that single drop of moisture, then frowned at the unexpected hitch in his chest. A woman’s tears had never affected him so. Had never inspired him to comfort or soothe.

Pulling his hand away from her, he stood quickly, then forced himself to slip into the stance he reserved for formal public occasions. “You should rest now. Nurse Mavis will have me drawn and quartered if I overtax her patient. If you need anything at all, dial zero and you’ll be connected with the proper department.”

“Thank you.” She lifted her gaze to his. “You’ve been more than kind.”

He turned, was nearly to the door when she called his name. He glanced over his shoulder.

“What if I need you?” she asked softly.

Dylan felt his blood heat, then surge through his veins. Too stunned to speak for a moment, he simply stared at her.

Blushing, she said quickly, “I mean, if I need to speak with you?”

“Star twenty-four will page me.” He swallowed the dryness in his throat. “Star twenty-five will put you through to the private phone in my suite.”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, just left, nearly closed the doors on his own heels in his hurry to get out before he did or said something he knew he’d regret.

“This chartreuse linen was absolutely made for you, Emily. With your hair and your coloring, you’ll be nothing short of fantastic. Oh, let’s try it on.”

Emily bit the inside of her mouth, swearing if she heard those four little words—let’s try it on—one more time, she might scream. Devonna Demetrius, a short-haired platinum blonde who was the most recent addition to the staff of palace couturieres, had shown up at Emily’s bedside two hours ago, followed by a large, rolling rack of clothes that ranged from sportswear to evening gowns. There were trays underneath overflowing with lingerie and mountains of boxes filled with shoes.

Yesterday, a simple phone call from Dylan had set Operation Wardrobe in motion. Devonna, assistant to Princess Megan’s couturiere, had spent most of the previous day in Emily’s room with a measuring tape in one hand and a color chart in the other. The couturiere had been given free rein with Prince Dylan’s charge, and though Emily had insisted that a few simple items were all she needed, Devonna would hear nothing of it.

If Prince Dylan ordered a new wardrobe for Emily, then Emily—whether she wanted one or not—would have a new wardrobe.

Devonna practically quivered with pleasure over the carte blanche she’d been given. Emily couldn’t help but think that the assistant couturiere was like a wiry terrier who’d been given a meaty bone—Emily herself being the meaty bone.

Dylan had left strict instructions with the staff that his guest was to be taken care of. Emily might have felt as if a hockey team had used her for a puck, but she wasn’t crippled, for heaven’s sake. She was feeling much better today. She didn’t need Sally to draw a bath for her, or warm the towels or wash and blowdry her hair. She didn’t need Nurse Mavis sternly standing watch all day, taking her pulse and blood pressure and asking her how she felt.

And she certainly didn’t need an entire wardrobe, either, she thought, glancing at all the beautiful clothes. She couldn’t keep any of these things. When this was over, she would dress in her own clothes, which had already been cleaned and mended and now hung in the closet, and she would leave.

But Devonna’s determination and enthusiasm had worn Emily down. That, and the fact that it was late in the day and she simply hadn’t the strength or energy to argue with the woman any longer.

“Miss Demetrius—”

“Dee Dee.” Devonna carefully slipped the jacket up Emily’s arms and onto her shoulders, rushed around to examine her creation, then pushed her oversized black-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Omigod, it’s perfect. Will you just look at yourself? Wait, wait, let me get the heels.”

“Dee Dee, I don’t need a linen jacket and skirt.” Still, while the zealous woman dug through a pile of shoe boxes, Emily glanced at the trio of full-length mirrors in the corner of the large dressing room attached to the bathroom.

It was perfect, Emily thought with a sigh. Everything Dee Dee had brought had been wonderful—a variety of conservative and youthful, fun and sophisticated. What woman wouldn’t be thrilled with such an abundance of beautiful, expensive clothes?